by Lee Welch
“She’s damned brave. Your father doesn’t deserve her.”
“Yes, but is she all right? You look terrible.”
“She’s fine. I think it may have worked. Everything felt—right.”
“But isn’t that good? Then what’s the matter?”
“I’m afraid I’ve something to tell you.”
Thornby listened in silence to the tale about the letter and all it implied. He’d thought he had no illusions left about Father, but the words ‘lunatic asylum’ sent a bolt of terror through him that, for a moment, seared rational thought away. Perhaps there had still been a part of him that wanted to believe the whole thing some awful misunderstanding; that Father wanted him to marry for benevolent reasons. Now that part of him died.
“May I sit down?” John said, making him jump.
Thornby nodded, not trusting his voice, and moved over to make room. John sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand over his. His usually tidy hair was rumpled, his cravat loose, dark smudges were under his eyes. He was glaring at nothing, as if he’d eat one alive if one so much as cleared one’s throat.
Yes, he looked daunting. Yes, he’d just magicked Father. And, yes, he could probably do a thousand alarming things with merely the contents of his pockets. But he was a decent man trying to do the right thing. No, it was more than that. He was the kind of man who gave walnuts to hedgehogs, who listened to frightened young ladies, and who tried to make you smile when it felt as if the world was caving in. And then he might fuck you until you forgot your own name. Thornby was suddenly ashamed for having been afraid of him earlier. It was Father who cast horror across everything. If John found a way to let him go, of course he would use it.
Thornby turned his hand over and laced their fingers together. John looked at him and tried to smile. He couldn’t quite manage it, but the fact that he was trying filled the empty place inside Thornby with something warm. Perhaps it was hope?
“Did you look at that hair?” Thornby asked. “You said it might be useful.”
“It is useful. I just have to find the right sigil.”
“I expect you scarcely had time today.”
“I did get a sigil from the spancel. It felt partly right.” John shook his head, eyes distant, probably remembering occult lines and curves of salt. “But something was missing. Some extra material, maybe? I don’t know. And I daren’t experiment until I’m sure; it might destroy the hair.”
“I see.”
John stroked his thumb over Thornby’s wrist, soothing, encouraging. “It was promising, but the spancel gets distressed if I press it too hard. And then it’s difficult to make out what it means. I’ll ask it again tomorrow.”
“It gets distressed? What on earth is it?”
“It’s a tether for magic. It’s very old. Much older than anything else I use. That’s partly why I’m so hopeful. It’s seen centuries of magic.”
“But what’s it made from?”
John gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Trade secret.”
In spite of everything, Thornby almost smiled. “Go on, tell me.”
“You don’t want to know,” John said, primly.
Deliberately aggravating, Thornby was sure. “I hope you realise I shall hound you until you tell me,” he said. “Can I see it?”
“What for?” John sounded suspicious.
“If it’s distressing itself trying to help me, then I should like to thank it.”
“Oh.”
The stunned look on John’s face actually made him smile. “One must always be a gentleman, John, no matter the circumstances.”
John closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief. When he opened them again, they were smiling, and the furrow between his brows was not so deep.
“Here then,” he said, and pulled the thing from his pocket. It was coiled tight; pale brown, fine-grained leather with those ancient-looking runes written upon it. Thornby wondered that it did not come unravelled in John’s pocket, but perhaps it did not care to.
He touched it with the tip of his finger. “Well, Mr Spancel, you have my thanks.” He felt rather a fool, now it had come to it, but at least John was smiling again. “Did it understand?”
John gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Can’t you tell what it’s thinking?” Thornby said.
“To tell the truth, it’s rather afraid. Don’t take that personally, though. It’s had a hard life. It’s afraid of everyone but me.”
“I hope it knows I wouldn’t hurt it.” Thornby gave it a wary stroke, wondering again what it was made from. “Are any of your materials afraid of you?”
“Of course not.” John frowned, perhaps trying to imagine such a peculiar state of affairs. “They like magic. Without it, they wouldn’t—well, they’re not exactly alive, but they wouldn’t feel anything.”
“But people are afraid of you. Sometimes. I nearly was, earlier. Knowing what you’d done to Father.”
John, who had been putting the spancel back in his pocket, looked up, the pain on his face so naked that Thornby put out a hand to wipe it away. He stroked John’s jawline with a finger, and ran his thumb over his mouth.
“Mr Blake, you may be one of the most alarming men I have met, but I think you’re the kindest as well. I am not afraid of you. And to prove it, I shall take some liberties with you. Possibly some no one has dared take before. If you aren’t too tired.” He pulled John down onto the bed and began to take his clothes off. “Hmm, here’s a part of you that’s waking up. The rest of you can go to sleep, if you like.”
“Soren, the pins. I’ve done no magic for hours, apart from the light.”
“All right then, get on.”
Thornby sat back, fretful at the delay, while John pulled pins out of his pocket and did what he had to do. John didn’t get up. He handed each charged pin to Thornby, who leaned over the side of the bed and stood them on the carpet. They felt perfectly ordinary, cold and lifeless, but they balanced on their points in that impossible, gravity-defying way.
Ah, but John was good to kiss. He kissed with utter conviction, with nothing held back. He kissed as if he would, through sheer force of will, somehow transcend corporeality and kiss Thornby’s very soul—and he had not yet even removed his cravat. Thornby pulled his own nightshirt off with one quick movement, knelt astride him, and began to take Mr Blake apart, starting with his clothes.
Matters proceeded until Thornby was kneeling between John’s legs, mouth tight around his cock. After a while, John tried to sit up, to pull him down on top of him. Thornby shook his head.
“No, Mr Blake. Tonight, I’m in charge. I am an earl, you know. I have all kinds of rights over you. So, lie back and shut up. Yes?”
John obeyed. Probably not something that happened very often. Thornby smiled a little around his cock. Better make the most of it.
He was, as he had told John, quite experienced in fucking men. Certainly, he was experienced enough to know that if John had tried it and not enjoyed it, it would not do to go too far, too fast. So, he would be gentle; he would tease, and lick, and caress and press. He would take his lead from John, but there would likely be no fucking—not tonight, anyway. But perhaps he would get a finger up that very tempting arsehole.
So, he sucked John’s cock until he could taste sweet liquid, and John was groaning, head thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out. Then, still sucking, Thornby began to caress John’s thighs, balls, and the area between balls and arse. He wet his fingers and began to trail them around John’s arsehole.
“Can I touch you here?”
“I thought you were in charge?”
Thornby rubbed a fingertip down the dark pucker, quite gently, but firmly enough not to tickle. He repeated the action. John’s breathing stuttered. His cock was very hard. Thornby made sure everything was really wet and slipped his index finger inside, up to the first joint.
John shifted a little on the bed; almost a flinch, and his cock softened slightly. Thornby w
ithdrew his finger.
“Too much?”
“I don’t usually allow that.”
“Sorry.”
“No. You can. I’ll say if I want you to stop.”
Thornby grinned, and slipped his finger in, this time going a little deeper, letting John get used to the idea of being touched inside. Then he withdrew his finger most of the way and began to concentrate on John’s cock again—licking and sucking, sliding the foreskin up and down, occasionally bringing his other hand into play, stroking the shaft, squeezing gently.
John was hard as a rock, the head of his cock almost purple. Thornby let another finger join the first, and pushed a little harder. He was feeling for that spot that makes men quiver and sob and spread themselves wide to let you in. The moment he found it, John tensed and clutched the sheet with both hands and gasped, “Ah, Jesus! Fuck!”
Thornby made an encouraging noise, and began to suck a little faster, and at the same time to move his fingers faster too, and more firmly.
“Ohhh, fuck,” John said. It was an anguished groan, like a man praying for his life. He was moving his hips, pushing against Thornby’s hand, and a moment later he was spending into Thornby’s mouth, arse clenching tight around Thornby’s fingers, crying out into the cold room in a way that was most unwise.
Thornby waited until the last shudder had gone through him, then slipped his fingers out and looked up. John was staring at him, slightly dazed. “Bloody ’ell,” he said. He sounded, for a second, not the gentleman he had learned to be, but an ironmonger’s son who has surprised himself.
Thornby racked his brains for something light-hearted to say. If John was feeling vulnerable, as men sometimes did, a joke would let him laugh and feel better. And in any case, he liked to see John smile. But he could not for the life of him think of anything. He felt as if something had happened that wasn’t just sex. John had given him something precious. And he hadn’t even come himself, though his cock was throbbing as if a single touch would undo him.
Then he remembered that cry. It had really been quite loud. Flattering, of course, but how delightful if Mr Grey or Mr Lazenby had heard it and decided to investigate. He got up, put the chair under the door handle again, and washed his hands in the dribble of cold water from the bottom of the ewer.
He was about to get back into bed when he noticed something white undulating gently next to the iron pins by the bed. He’d nearly stepped on it. He peered closer and nearly gave a yelp of surprise.
It was an octopus. And it must belong to John, because it had one tentacle wrapped around a pin like a gentleman holding a malacca cane. It gave Thornby such a look of affronted dignity that he muttered ‘beg pardon’ at it.
“You realise there’s an octopus under the bed?” he said, getting under the covers.
John, who had been slipping an arm around him, went still for a moment. “Is there? Yes, all right. I’m not surprised.”
“Yours, is it?”
“No.” John began kissing Thornby’s neck, biting it a little; the shivers made Thornby’s toes curl and his cock twitch.
“It’s not?”
“Near the pin, wasn’t it?” John said.
“Yes.”
“Mmm. There’s been something every time now, when we have sex. Always things from the sea: shells, barnacles, starfish. Now an octopus. It’s us, I think, manifesting them.”
“But I thought the pins put a stop to all that. Isn’t that what they’re for?”
John had been trailing kisses down his chest, curling his tongue around a nipple. He glanced up. “Yes. But then I’ve never been with anyone like you before. And I’ve never felt—” He broke off, and instead planted a kiss near Thornby’s navel. “What about you? Ever had a magician before?”
“I don’t think so.” The idea that he might have, unknowingly, was faintly alarming.
“No? And the sea? Fond of it, are you?”
“I can’t abide it, apart from Turner’s maritime pieces. It reminds me of that awful time at the seaside with Father. And my foot.”
“Well, don’t worry about the octopus. It’ll go away soon.” John was tugging at his hips, moving him into a more convenient position.
Thornby frowned. “Yes, but—”
But he got no further, because John suddenly pinned him to the bed with firm hands, and began sucking him unmercifully, presently sliding a couple of fingers up his arse. And soon there could have been a kraken under the bed and he wouldn’t have cared about it if John didn’t. There was only John’s mouth and hand, and the sensation pulsing through him. He came, urgently and sweetly, biting his own fist to stop himself yelling. He wasn’t usually a screamer, but there was something about the way John did it that almost made him forget himself entirely.
“I should go,” John murmured afterwards. His voice dragged with tiredness.
“Go to sleep. I’ll see the maid off when she comes.” But he yawned himself.
“You should sleep, too. I’m going.”
John got up, put on just enough clothes for decency, gathered his pins, and was gone. It was much colder without him. Thornby pulled his nightshirt back on and glanced over the edge of the bed. The octopus was nowhere to be seen, yet he did not feel relieved. Instead, he was a little crestfallen, as if a friend had left without saying good-bye. He settled into the spot where John had been lying. It still smelled of him, faintly, and there was some residual warmth. Thornby pulled the eiderdown over his head and was asleep.
***
Thornby woke to a sharp pain in his chest, as if something was biting him. He gasped and convulsed, curling his knees up, trying to grab the source of the pain. His waking brain threw him some confused ideas about adders or rats. But his hands met nothing. His eyes flew open. The fire had been lit and the curtains opened, and in the grey light of morning, the red bloom of blood was soaking the front of his nightshirt.
Then the agony returned double-fold. He jack-knifed in the bed, clutching at his chest, trying to get away from whatever was hurting him. He pushed himself up on one elbow. Nothing sharp was there—just the laces of the nightshirt. Yet the pain seared through him again. He struggled out of bed, half falling, and ripped the front of the nightshirt open. There were two long slashes across his chest, nearly from nipple to nipple, both bleeding freely. And as he watched, another began to open up. He grabbed at it, trying to hold his skin together with his hands, twisting in agony, trying to escape.
An attack. From nowhere.
His foot catching fire all those years ago.
This was the same. It was magic. Father was cutting the token.
He must get to John, because John could find people. Father would lead them straight to it.
He staggered to the door, chest burning and throbbing. The front of the nightshirt stuck to him, glistening red, as if he’d had his heart cut out. He put blood-sticky fingers to the door handle, and froze as footsteps hurried past. But he had to get to John now. He opened the door to see the vanishing form of one of the housemaids. Apart from that, the passage was empty. For now. He ran, hunched over, expecting more pain at any moment. He got to John’s door and burst through it.
John sat bolt upright, hair tousled, eyes already alert. “Soren? Christ! What the fuck!” He leapt out of bed, wearing nothing but his drawers and shirt.
Thornby clutched the bedpost. “The token. He—he—”
Words were far too difficult. He let the torn nightshirt fall open. There were three long cuts, the bottom two masked with blood, as if he’d been sliced open with a razor. Blood had dripped down to his stomach, and beyond.
John was pulling things out of the pockets of his jacket, which lay over the stand. “Don’t be afraid. This is a good thing. If it’s your father doing it, he’ll lead us straight to it, the bastard.”
Thornby bunched the ragged edges of the blood-soaked nightshirt and tried to stem the bleeding. Don’t be afraid? He was shivering with fear. Father could hurt him any time, without warning. At
least, with a blow, one could usually see it coming. And what if Father decided to do worse than cut him? What about fire? He’d used it before. What if—?
John was kneeling on the carpet, making an intricate pattern of salt. He put a cigar cutter in the centre of it, shook a small vial and poured something that looked like blood onto the salt nearby. He took the glass eye in one hand. Then he touched the salt in that purposeful, deliberate way, and the cigar cutter glowed red and melted into a yellow puddle, scorching a hole in the carpet.
“He’s in the park. To the west of the house,” John said.
“In the park?” The edges of Thornby’s vision were darkening. He sank to his knees. “Where?”
“Don’t know.” John was pulling his clothes on. “He’s on the move.”
“I...don’t...” Thornby closed his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate. “Where, exactly, in the park?”
“Don’t know. I’m going to look.” John paused in front of him to grip his shoulder, then ran out of the room.
The sigil John had made was still on the floor, the melted cigar cutter a black ash-encrusted blob. He’d gone in such a hurry he’d left his salt behind. That was unlike him. Thornby touched the closest line of salt with one bloodied finger. It made him feel a little better, as if he was touching John’s hand. John had acted fast. Look how he’d had that cigar cutter, which must have belonged to Father, as if he’d been expecting this very eventuality. But it had still taken time to get here, make the sigil and locate Lord Dalton.
Would Father still be there, with it? Or would he have hidden it again and left?
Thornby should go himself, out into the park to help John look.
He staggered back to his room and kicked the bloody nightshirt under the bed like a guilty secret. There was warm water in the jug, so he cleaned himself up and started to get dressed. But his hands were shaking so he could barely do his buttons. His chest burned, and his head kept spinning. Worst was the hideous anticipation: expecting, all the time, that the pain could come again, and he would never know when. He fumbled with the buckles at his knees, but they defeated him entirely. What did it matter? He was only wearing these ridiculous clothes to annoy Father. And Father didn’t care, not really.